Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
He, the captor.
Me, the captive.
But when he asks, “Are you alright to walk? Here, lean on me and take it one step at a time,” and his voice is gentle, his eyes full of concern, I wonder if the man inside him will ever win for good. If he can shuck away the monster one day, alongside this religion, free himself from both. If he can become the man he was once, the one with the name he no longer remembers.
I give him a reassuring smile. “I’ll try.”
I’ve had my feet bound this whole time, hobbling and hopping around the room when he’s not here, working my muscles and testing my feet, making sure they’re ready for the big escape. But now that I actually have to walk with one foot in front of the other, it’s not as easy as I let myself believe.
I wobble, a lot, but Priest keeps his grip on me steady, leading me toward the door, toward the place where the salvation happens. My feet feel tight and thin, my toes continuously gripping the floor like they’re claws. My calves are quick to ache, but I manage to put one foot in front of another until we’re at the door.
He lets go of me long enough to unlock it, and I manage to stay upright.
Then, he opens the door and leads me through to a whole new world.
This place feels holy. The air is thick with reverence—there is no other way to explain it. Sometimes, back in Limonos, you would come across these sea caves where the sun would pierce the surface just so, shining light on the coral and the shimmering scales of the fish, and you could feel that it was a place of importance. Other times, there were caverns in the rock where the dead were buried, piles of Syren bones, and you could sense all the lives that came before you.
This church is like that. Perhaps not as natural, not as pure, but I can tell it’s a place where people come to bring their hopes and dreams and fears and sorrows and lay them down, offer them up.
“What?” Priest asks me.
I’ve come to a stop, taking it all in.
“You don’t feel it?” I whisper, looking up at the rafters. I suppose the place is simple—I’ve seen fancier in underwater kingdoms—but even in its simplicity, there is something palpable in the air.
“Feel what?” His gaze is curious as it rakes over me.
I shrug, feeling a little foolish. If a priest doesn’t even know…
“I can tell it’s a place of worship.”
“Ah,” he says slowly, running his fingers over his jaw. “I suppose you’re right. I’m just so close to it that I’ve never noticed. Don’t tell me you’re about to become a woman of faith.”
“I’m not a woman of anything,” I say stiffly. “Just of free mind and free will.”
“And yet the other day, you were judging the very people who come here to worship.”
“I’m not saying I agree with what they are worshipping,” I explain. “It’s only that I can feel that they do. It’s not about God. It’s about desperation.”
Silence stretches between us, and I worry I’ve offended him, even though I want to offend him.
“I see,” he says carefully, rubbing his lips as he ponders my words. “You ought to be careful; your thoughts are bordering on blasphemous.”
“And why would I care?”
“Because you’re the one who just asked me how to pray.” He takes my arm again and leads me over to the front of the church, a raised area in front of the aisle. There are a few steps leading up to it and then a long table lit with candles, draped with white lace. Behind that, a large silver cross is mounted on the wall, various other crosses and portraits of people on either side with windows made from colorful glass.
“Here,” he says in a low voice, dropping down to his knees on the step and gesturing for me to do the same.
I pull up the hem of my skirt and attempt to kneel beside him, my movements awkward as I bend my knees in such a way, the green satin pooling around me like water. I watch everything he does—the way he places his hands together, palm-to-palm, fingers up, how he looks to the cross, the way he bows his head and rests the tips of his fingers on his forehead, closing his eyes.
“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” he says in a low, rich voice, a quieter version of the one I’ve heard booming during mass. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven.”
He then falls silent, and I can’t help but hold my breath.
Finally, he opens his eyes and shoots me a shy glance. “You’re supposed to repeat after me.”